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iFROM  THE  YALE  REVIEW 


WAR  POEMS 
from  The  Yale  'Review. 


REPRINTS  FROM  THE 
YALE  REVIEW 


r. 


zA  'Book  of  Tale  "T^jview  "Verse, 
1917 

War  'Poems  from  The  Tale  Ti^viezv, 
1918 

War  'Poems  from  The  Tale  1(^view 
(Second  Edition), 

1919 

Four  zAmericanSy 

by  Henry  zA.  'Beers, 

1919 


WAR  POEMS 

from  The  Tale  ^B^iew 

WITH  A  FOREWORD  BY 
THE  EDITORS 


Second  Edition, 


J  ,     o  >      ~> 


NEW  HAVEN 

YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

J[j)ndon,  Humphrey  zy)^ilford,  Oxford  University  'Press, 

MDCCCCXIX 


COPYRIGHT,   1 91 8,   1 91 9,  BY 
YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 


? 


FIRST  PUBLISHED,  SEPTEMBER,    I9I' 
SECOND  EDITION,  AUGUST,    I919 


FOREWORD 

r 

THOUGH  It  is  still  too  early  to  say  what  goal  of 
permanent  art  the  verse  inspired  by  the  Great  War 
will  eventually  reach,  it  is  already  possible  to  see  the 
direction  in  which  it  is  moving.  Certain  distinctive  and 
dynamic  values  have  unmistakably  appeared — values 
which  set  the  characteristic  war  poetry  of  our  day  in 
marked  contrast  with  that  of  the  past,  and  with  what  we 
know  of  the  curiously  archaic  expression  of  modern  Ger- 
many. Our  own  product,  which  this  little  collection  from 
the  work  of  a  score  of  British  and  American  writers  may 
illustrate,  is  almost  strangely  free  from  the  mood  of  the 
older  war  minstrels.  Our  poets  to-day  are  seldom  intrigued 
by  the  pomp  and  circumstance  of  armies.  They  Indulge  in 
very  little  glorification  of  the  sheer  joy  of  combat,  the  hot 
hatreds  and  bloody  vengeance  of  battle.  The  war  Is  seen 
by  them  rather  as  a  new  atonement  than  as  a  mighty 
drama  of  arms;  and  its  heroes  for  them  are  the  men,  the 
women,  the  children,  who  have  suffered  to  the  utter- 
most for  the  redemption  of  the  world.  The  overwhelming 
grief;  the  superhuman  endurance;  the  poignant  and  tri- 
umphant dignity  of  death ;  the  terrible  losses,  the  spiritual 
reparations — these  are  the  themes  that  our  war  poets 
have  made  peculiarly  their  own.  It  is  as  if  they  were  con- 


6  '    '  FOREWORD 

strained  by  that  warning  uttered  out  of  the  fulness  of  the 
wisdom  of  peace — 

The  tumult  and  the  shouting  dies; 
The  captains  and  the  kings  depart: 
Still  stands  Thine  ancient  sacrifice, 
An  humble  and  a  contrite  heart. 

But  for  all  the  tragedy  and  pathos,  there  is  no  weak 
lament,  no  vain  longing  for  the  peace  that  is  gone.  Never 
in  history  have  war  poets  been  so  preoccupied  with  the 
greatness  of  their  cause.  The  beauty  of  the  Ideal  towards 
which  humanity  to-day  Is  struggling  through  blood, 
touches  and  consecrates  their  art. 

The  Editors. 

August,  igi8. 


NOTE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION 

THE  first  edition  of  "War  Poems  from  The  Yale 
Review"  has  been  exhausted,  but  the  demand  has 
not  come  to  an  end  with  peace.  The  editors  have  taken 
advantage  of  a  second  printing  of  the  book  to  make  a  few 
changes,  and  to  add  poems  by  Edgar  Lee  Masters,  Wil- 
frid Wilson  Gibson,  John  Gould  Fletcher,  and  others, 
that  substantially  Increase  the  completeness  and  effective- 
ness of  the  anthology. 

The  Editors. 

August,  igig. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Baker,  Karle  Wilson 

Eagle  Youth 27 

Graves  in  France 39 

Bates,  Katharine  Lee 

The  New  Iliad .      23 

Cammaerts,  Emile 

Meditation  sur  la  Nuit  du  Trois  Aout  .  .  .18 
CoNKLiNG,  Grace  Hazard 

To  Francis  Ledwidge 37 

CoRBiN,  Alice 

A  Litany  in  the  Desert .41 

DoDD,  Lee  Wilson 

Plus  Tard 38 

Erskine,  John 

Impressions  at  the  Front 11 

Finley,  John 

The  Valleys  of  the  Blue  Shrouds 15 

Fletcher,  John  Gould 

A  New  Heaven 25 

The  Silent  Navy 49 

Frost,  Robert 

Not  to  Keep 14 


8  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Gibson,  Wilfrid  Wilson 

Sentry  Go 40 

Letts,  W.  M. 

A  Ballade  for  Peace  Day 43 

The  Road  that  Goes  West 44 

Masefield,  John 

The  Will  to  Perfection 17 

Masters,  Edgar  Lee 

Epitaph  for  Us 46 

McLeod,  Irene 

The  Absent  Lover 35 

Missing 36 

NoYES,  Alfred 

The   Union 9 

Untermeyer,  Louis 

Jerusalem  Delivered 28 


WAR  POEMS 

from  The  Yale  Tieview. 

ALFRED  NOYES 

r 

THE  UNION 

YOU  that  have  gathered  together  the  sons  of  all  races, 
And  welded  them  into  one, 
Lifting  the  torch  of  your  Freedom  on  hungering  faces 
That  sailed  to  the  setting  sun; 

You  that  have  made  of  mankind  in  your  own  proud 
regions 

The  music  of  man  to  be, 
How  should  the  old  earth  sing  of  you,  now,  as  your  legions 

Rise  to  set  all  men  free? 

How  should  the  singer  that  knew  the  proud  vision  and 
loved  it, 
In  the  days  when  not  all  men  knew. 
Gaze,  through  his  tears,  on  the  light,  now  the  world  has 
approved  it; 
Or  dream,  when  the  dream  comes  true? 


10  ALFRED  NOYES 

How  should  he   sing  when  the   Spirit  of   Freedom   in 
thunder 
Speaks,  and  the  wine-press  is  red; 
And  the  sea-winds  are  loud  with  the  chains  that  are  broken 
asunder 
And  nations  that  rise  from  the  dead? 

Flag  of  the  sky,  proud  flag  of  that  wide  communion, 

Too  mighty  for  thought  to  scan ; 
Flag  of  the  many  in  one,  and  that  last  world-union 

That  kingdom  of  God  in  man; 

Ours  was  a  dream,  in  the  night,  of  that  last  federation, 

But  yours  is  the  glory  unfurled, — 
The  marshalled  nations  and  stars  that  shall  make  one 
nation 

One  singing  star  of  the  world. 


I 


JOHN  ERSKINE 

'     IMPRESSIONS  AT  THE  FRONT 

I 

S  this  the  front — this  level  sweep  of  life, 


This  pageant  without  pulse  of  haste  or  fear? 
Can  this  calm  exercise  be  mortal  strife? 
Is  the  last  reach  of  passion  measured  here? 
We  looked  for  angry  blade  and  poisonous  breath 
Striking  the  floor  of  judgment,  flail  and  fan; 
Here  lurked,  we  thought,  crude  agonies  of  death — 
But  here,  in  one  wide  dignity,  is  man. 

Others  behind  the  conflict,  safe  and  far. 
Still  wage  with  lips  their  travesty  of  war; 
We  catch  the  rumor  when  the  cannon  cease. 
Here  at  the  front,  when  most  the  cannon  rage, 
The  dream-touched  actors  on  this  mighty  stage 
In  silence  play  their  parts,  and  seem  at  peace. 

II 

Framed  in  with  battle,  this  weird  pantomime, 
This  dignity  of  action,  conjures  up 
Shades  of  old  heroes — Lancelot  in  his  prime, 
Galahad,  questing  for  the  holy  cup. 
Beautiful  Hector  marching  to  his  fate, 
Tristram  and  Palimedes,  rivals  twain, 


12  JOHN  ERSKINE 

And  Roland  sounding  his  proud  horn  too  late — 
These  quiet  actors  play  these  parts  again. 

And  In  the  lull  the  critics  far  away, 
Who  have  not  seen,  nor  ever  read,  this  play. 
Who  cannot  act,  who  never  trod  the  stage — 
Their  quarrel  mingle  with  the  threatening  cry 
Of  the  scene-shifters  watching  Roland  die. 
Who  seize  the  moment  for  a  better  wage. 

Ill 

If  this  world  be  a  stage,  what  hours  we  give 
To  tedious  make-up  in  the  tiring  room; 
How  simply  comes  at  last  our  cue  to  live. 
How,  ere  we  know  it,  we  enact  our  doom ! 
The  wisdom  that  impels  us  to  the  play 
Is  patient  with  us  while  we  choose  our  parts, 
But  without  warning  sounds  our  judgment  day; 
The  curtain  rises — life,  the  drama,  starts. 

How  late  it  starts !  Ere  this  grim  curtain  rose, 
How  long  we  practised  attitude  and  pose. 
Disguise  of  accent,  costume,  mood,  or  mind! 
Yet  in  this  inventory  of  our  art, 
Living  at  last,  we  play  our  naked  heart; 
How  brief  a  reckoning  counts  us  with  our  kind! 

IV 

If  character  be  fate,  no  need  to  ask 

Who  set  the  stage,  who  cast  you  for  the  role ; 


JOHN  ERSKINE  13 

Put  on  what  man  you  are,  put  off  the  mask, 
Put  on  the  tragic  pattern  of  your  soul. 
At  last  be  true ;  no  gesture  now  let  spring 
But  from  supreme  sincerity  of  art; 
Let  him  who  plays  the  monarch  be  a  king. 
Who  plays  the  rogue,  be  perfect  in  his  part. 

So  when  this  hour  had  rung,  the  scene  began. 
One  played  the  rash,  one  played  the  patient  man, 
And  one,  the  hero,  drew  the  dragon's  fangs ; 
One  heard  death's  bugler  calling,  and  obeyed; 
And  one,  a  rose-cheeked  boy,  the  martyr  played; 
One  played  the  traitor  well — see  where  he  hangs. 

V 

We  may  yet  play  more  roles  than  we  believed, 
Since  to  himself  at  last  each  man  is  known, 
Since  now  the  actor  studies  undeceived 
The  part  he  learned,  and  lived,  and  has  outgrown. 
And  those,  the  few  and  flawless,  the  sublime 
Whose  poignance  of  perfection  strikes  us  dumb — 
Even  for  themselves,  in  the  surprise  of  the  time. 
Doubt  not  another  reckoning  will  come. 

"Comrades,  we  shall  rehearse  more  wisely — yea. 
There  shall  be  nobler  persons  in  our  play. 
We  shall  rebuild  the  plot  on  kindlier  laws." 
So  at  the  front  they  act,  and  see,  and  ponder. 
And  win,  with  simple  gratitude  and  wonder, 
Peace  in  themselves,  which  is  their  sole  applause. 


ROBERT  FROST 

NOT  TO  KEEP 

THEY  sent  him  back  to  her.  The  letter  came 
Saying  .  .   .  and  she  could  have  him.  And  before 
She  could  be  sure  there  was  no  hidden  ill 
Under  the  formal  writing,  he  was  in  her  sight — 
Living. — They  gave  him  back  to  her  alive — 
How  else?  They  are  not  known  to  send  the  dead — 
And  not  disfigured  visibly.  His  face  ? — 
His  hands?  She  had  to  look — to  ask 
"What  was  it,  dear?"  And  she  had  given  all 
And  still  she  had  all — they  had — they  the  lucky ! 
Wasn't  she  glad  now?  Everything  seemed  won, 
And  all  the  rest  for  them  permissible  ease. 
She  had  to  ask  "What  was  it,  dear?" 

"Enough, 
Yet  not  enough.  A  bullet  through  and  through. 
High  in  the  breast.  Nothing  but  what  good  care 
And  medicine  and  rest — and  you  a  week, 
Can  cure  me  of  to  go  again."  The  same 
Grim  giving  to  do  over  for  them  both. 
She  dared  no  more  than  ask  him  with  her  eyes 
How  was  it  with  him  for  a  second  trial. 
And  with  his  eyes  he  asked  her  not  to  ask. 
They  had  given  him  back  to  her,  but  not  to  keep. 


JOHN  FINLEY 
THE  VALLEYS  OF  THE  BLUE  SHROUDS 

(Where  the  valiant  potlus  were  buried  in  their  blue  uniforms.) 

O   SHARDS  of  walls  that  once  held  precious  life, 
Now  scattered,  like  the  bones  the  Prophet  saw 
Lying  in  visioned  valley  of  the  slain 
Ere  One  cried:  "Son  of  Man,  can  these  bones  live?'* 

O  images  of  heroes,  saints,  and  Christs, 
Pierced,  broken,  thrust  in  hurried  sepulture 
In  selfsame  tombs  with  tinsel,  dross,  and  dreg, 
And  without  time  for  either  shrift  or  shroud ! 

O  smould'ring  embers  of  Love's  hearthstone  fires, 
Quenched  by  the  fiercer  fires  of  hellish  hate. 
That  have  not  where  to  kindle  flames  again 
To  light  succeeding  generations  on ! 

O  ghost-gray  ashes  of  cathedral  towers 
That  toward  the  sky  once  raised  appealing  hands 
To  beg  the  God  of  all  take  residence  within 
And  hold  communion  with  the  kneeling  souls ! 

O  silent  tongues  of  bells  that  once  did  ring 
Matin  and  Angelus  o'er  peaceful  fields, 


16  JOHN  FINLEY 

Now  shapeless  slag  that  will  to-morrow  serve 
To  make  new  engines  for  still  others'  woe ! 

O  dust  that  flowered  in  iinial  and  foil 
And  bright  in  many-petaled  windows  bloomed, 
Now  unto  dust  returned  at  cannon's  breath 
To  lay  thy  faded  glories  on  the  crypt  I 

The  cirrus  dawns  in  Parsee  tapestries 
With  azure  broiderings  will  clothe  your  walls ; 
The  nimbus  noons  will  shower  golden  rain 
And  sunset  colors  fill  each  Gothic  arch ; 

For  o'er  thy  stricken  vales,  O  valiant  France, 
Our  love  for  thee  shall  prophesy  anew, 
And  Heav'n's  Four  Winds  of  Liberty,  allied, 
Shall  breathe  unpoisoned  in  thy  streets  till  they 
Shall  pulse  again  with  life  that  laughs  and  sings, 
And  yet  remembers,  singing  through  its  tears 
The  music  of  an  everlasting  song — 
Remembers,  proudly  and  undyingly, 
The  hero  dust  that  lies  in  shrouds  of  blue 
But  rises  as  thy  soul,  immortal  France! 


JOHN  MASEFIELD 

THE  WILL  TO  PERFECTION 

O  WRETCHED  man,  that,  for  a  little  mile 
Crawls  beneath  Heaven  for  his  brother's  blood, 
Whose  days  the  planets  number  with  their  style, 
To  whom  all  earth  is  slave,  all  living,  food; 

O  withering  man,  within  whose  folded  shell 
Lies  yet  the  seed,  the  spirit's  quickening  corn, 
That  Time  and  Sun  will  change  out  of  the  cell 
Into  green  meadows,  in  the  world  unborn ; 

If  Beauty  be  a  dream,  do  but  resolve 
And  fire  shall  come,  that  in  the  stubborn  clay 
Works  to  make  perfect  till  the  rocks  dissolve. 
The  barriers  burst  and  beauty  takes  her  way. 

Beauty  herself,  within  whose  blossoming  Spring 
Even  wretched  man  shall  clap  his  hands  and  sing. 


EMILE  CAMMAERTS 

r 

MEDITATION  SUR  LA  NUIT  DU  TROIS  AOUT 

(1914-1917) 

(Translation  by  Madame  Cammaerts.) 

— Que  faites-vous  assis,  la  tete  dans  votre  manteau? 
— Que  faltes-vous  accroupis,  le  menton  dans  la  main? 
— Que  faites-vous  couches,  les  yeux  leves  vers  le  ciel? 
— Nous  attendons  que  le  soleil  se  leve  sur  les  eaux. 
— Et  qu'a  la  veille  succede  le  lendemain. 
— Nous  attendons  que  les  morts  se  reveillent. 

Les  soldats  montent  la  garde  autour  du  tombeau. 
lis  ont  roule  la  pierre,  ils  ont  pose  les  sceaux. 
Dans  la  nuit  etoilee  brillent  leurs  baionettes 
Et  ils  portent  des  casques  a  pointe  sur  la  tete. 
lis  parlent  une  langue  que  nous  n'entendons  pas, 
Une  langue  precise  et  lourde  comme  leurs  pas. 
Meme  au  seuil  du  tombeau,  ils  ne  baissent  pas  la  volx. 
Et  ils  trebuchent  en  jurant  sur  les  croix.  .   .  . 

Que  manque-t-il,  mon  pays,  a  ta  Passion? 
N*as-tu  pas  eu  ton  agonie  dans  le  Jardin? 
N'as-tu  pas  dii  subir  les  caresses  de  Judas, 
En  cette  nuit  d'aout  ou  la  trahison 


EMILE  CAMMAERTS  19 

Te  balsalt  la  joue  en  te  tordant  la  main? 
N'as-tu  pas  du,  comme  Jesus,  faire  ton  choix? 

Que  manque-t-il,  mon  pays,  a  ton  Calvaire? 

N'es-tu  pas  tombe  trois  fois  sous  la  croix, 

A  Liege,  a  Namur,  a  Anvers  ? 

T'ont-ils  epargne  leurs  injures,  leurs  crachats, 

Leurs  railleries  et  leurs  coups? 

N'as-tu  pas  saigne  sous  la  couronne  d'epines? 

N'as-tu  pas  senti  s'enfoncer  les  clous : 

Dinant,  Termonde,  Andenne,  Tamines? 

N'as-tu  pas  demande  a  boire 

Et  goute  le  fiel  de  I'eponge  derisoire 

Tandis  que  tes  bourreaux,  a  tes  pieds, 

Se  disputaient  ta  robe  a  coups  de  des  ? 

N'as-tu  pas  eu  faim  et  soif  de  Justice? 

N'as-tu  pas  mange  le  pain  de  la  captivite? 

N'as-tu  pas  bu  jusqu'a  la  lie  le  calice 

De  I'esclavage  et  de  I'iniquite? 

Pourtant  la  terre  n'a  pas  celebre  ton  deuil, 

Les  cieux  ne  se  sont  pas  obscurcis, 

Tu  n'as  pas  eu  de  mains  amies 

Pour  te  coucher  dans  ton  cercueil. 

Voila  non  trois  jours  mais  trois  ans  que  tu  tombas, 

Comme  un  fruit  trop  mur,  dans  ton  tombeau. 

Trois  ans  qu'ils  ont  roule  la  pierre  et  pose  les  sceaux 

Et  les  morts  ne  se  reveillent  toujours  pas.  .   .   . 

— Que  faites-vous  assis,  la  tete  dans  votre  manteau? 
— Que  faites-vous  couches,  les  yeux  leves  vers  le  ciel? 


20  EMILE  CAMMAERTS 

— Que  faites-vous  accroupis,  le  menton  dans  la  main? 
— Nous  entendons  les  moissonneurs  qui  aiguisent  leurs 

faux. 
— Nous  humons  les  parfums  des  prairies  maternelles. 
— Nous  regardons  palir  I'etoile  du  matin. 


— What   are  you   doing  seated  there,  with  your  head 

wrapped  in  your  cloak? 
— What  are  you  doing  crouched  there,  with  your  chin 

upon  your  hand? 
— What  are  you  doing  lying  there,  with  your  eyes  fixed 

on  the  sky  ? 
— We  are  waiting  for  the  sun  to  rise  upon  the  waters. 
— ^And  for  the  morn  to  follow  on  the  night. 
— We  are  waiting  for  the  dead  to  awake.  .  .  . 

The  soldiers  are  watching  around  the  tomb, 

They  have  rolled  the  stone  in  place,  they  have  set  the 

seals. 
In  the  starry  night  their  bayonets  gleam. 
They  are  wearing  pointed  helmets  on  their  heads. 
They  speak  a  speech  we  do  not  understand, 
A  language  harsh  and  heavy  as  their  steps. 
By  the  very  grave,  they  lower  not  their  voices. 
And  they  stumble  on  the  crosses  and  they  curse. 

What  is  lacking,  O  my  Country,  to  thy  Passion? 
Hast  thou  not  had  thine  agony  in  the  Garden? 
Wast  thou  not  forced  to  take  Judas  kisses. 


EMILE  CAMMAERTS  21 

That  night  in  August  when  treason 

Kissed  thy  cheek  and  wrung  thy  hand? 

Didst  thou  not,  hke  Jesus,  have  to  make  thy  choice  ? 

What  is  lacking,  O  my  Country,  to  thy  Calvary? 

Didst  thou  not  fall  three  times  beneath  the  cross — 

At  Liege,  at  Namur,  and  at  Antwerp? 

Wert  thou  spared  their  spitting  and  their  insults, 

Their  mockeries  and  their  blows? 

Didst  thou  not  bleed  beneath  a  crown  of  thorns? 

Didst  thou  not  feel  the  nails  pierce  thy  flesh — 

Dinant,  Termonde,  Andenne,  Tamines? 

Didst  thou  not  ask  to  drink,  and  taste 

The  gall  on  mocking  sponge, 

While  underneath  thee,  at  thy  feet. 

The  soldiers  cast  upon  thy  vestures  lots? 

Didst  thou  not  for  Justice  thirst  and  hunger? 

Didst  thou  not  eat  the  captive's  bitter  bread? 

Didst  thou  not  drink  unto  the  very  dregs 

The  cruel  cup  of  shame  and  slavery? 

And  yet  the  earth  did  not  join  in  thy  mourning. 
The  heavens  were  not  overcast  and  black, 
No  loving  hands  were  near  to  lay  thee 
Tenderly  in  thy  tomb. 

And  now,  not  three  days  but  three  years  have  passed 
Since  thou  fellst,  like  too  ripe  fruit,  into  thy  grave, 
Since  they  rolled  the  stone  in  place  and  set  the  seals, 
And  still  the  dead  have  not  arisen  again.  .   .   . 


22  EMILE  CAMMAERTS 

— What   are  you   doing  seated  there,   with  your  head 

wrapped  in  your  cloak? 
— ^What  are  you  doing  lying  there,  with  your  eyes  fixed 

on  the  sky? 
— What  are  you  doing  crouched  there,  with  your  chin 

upon  your  hand? 
— ^We  are  listening  to  the  reapers  sharpening  their  scythes. 
— We  are  breathing  in  the  perfume  of  our  country's  fields. 
— We  are  watching  the  paling  of  the  morning  star. 


KATHARINE  LEE  BATES 

r 

THE  NEW  ILIAD 

SO  young,  with  bright  tossed  hair  and  eager  eyes, 
The  curves  and  tints  of  boyhood  on  a  face 
More  fit  for  mother-kiss  than  powder-stain, 
Wearing  his  khaki  hke  a  brief  disguise 
Donned  by  a  student,  on  our  dusty  train 
He  sat  for  hours  unmoving  in  his  place. 

That  slender  presence,  sacrificial,  fair, 
Drew  many  glances,  though.  New  England  bred, 
One  word  of  all  our  love  we  could  not  speak. 
We  only  watched  him  as  he  nestled  there 
Against  the  window,  with  the  page  of  Greek 
Open  beneath  his  hand,  unturned,  unread. 

His  blue  eyes  conned  a  mightier  Iliad. 
Those  beehive  wars  of  one  wife-stealing  clan 
Against  another  on  a  windy  spur 
Of  Asia  Minor  faded  from  the  lad 
Fronting  that  most  tremendous  massacre 
E'er  staged  by  Time,  well-skilled  tragedian. 

Where  ravening,  savage  Might,  the  Antichrist, 
Gigantic  onset  makes  against  the  line 
That  holds  for  Freedom,  Honor,  Pity,  all 


24  KATHARINE  LEE  BATES 

Those  slow-won  sanctities  whose  worth  is  priced 
Above  the  utmost  cost  of  blood.  Appal 
Though  such  cost  may,  we  yield  not  our  Divine. 

But  what  new  Homer,  in  what  land  awaking. 

Shall  chant  this  war,  its  crashing  battle-waves, 

Its  flying  duels  mirrored  from  above 

Within  the  rainbow,  fatal  thunders  breaking 

In  ocean's  purple  depth,  the  borders  of 

Wide  countries  wrought  in  armies  and  in  graves? 

Down  thirty  centuries  Helen's  face  has  shone 
By  magic  of  a  blind  old  bard.  Thy  soul, 
Edith  Cavell,  shall  not  its  beauty  find 
Remembrance  ?  Is  the  fame  by  Hector  won 
To  lord  it  still,  while  dust  upon  the  wind 
Are  the  brave  deeds  that  crowd  our  daily  scroll? 

With  bright  tossed  hair  and  eager  eyes,  the  lad, 

Still  as  a  statue  of  immortal  youth. 

Leaned  to  his  window,  heedless  of  the  Greek, 

Already  in  that  greater  Iliad 

Striking  his  blow.  The  love  we  could  not  speak 

Encompassed  him  in  looks  of  pride  and  ruth. 


JOHN  GOULD  FLETCHER 


A  NEW  HEAVEN 

WE  have  our  hopes  and  fears  that  flout  us, 
We  have  our  illusions,   changeless  through  the 
years; 
We  have  our  dreams  of  rest  after  long  struggle. 
After  our  toil  is  finished,  folded  hands. 
But  for  those  who  have  fallen  in  battle, 
What  Heaven  can  there  be  ? 

Heaven  is  full  of  those  who  can  remember 

The  ebbing-out  of  life  that  slowly  lingered 

At  the  dark  doors  of  pain; 

Heaven  is  full  of  those  who  dropped  their  burden 

At  last  through  weariness ; 

But  these  the  War  has  taken 

Remember  naught  but  their  own  exultant  youth 

Filling  their  hearts  with  unaccomplished  dreams : 

The  trumpet-call — then  the  swift  searing  darkness 

Stilling  the  proud  sad  song. 

How  will  these  enter  in 

Our  old  dull  Heaven  ? 

Where  we  seek  only  to  drowse  at  ease,  unthinking. 

Since  we  are  safe  at  last. 


26  JOHN  GOULD  FLETCHER 

Safe?  For  these  souls  who  faced  a  thousand  dangers, 
And  found  sly  Death  that  robbed  them  of  their  chance, 
Ere  it  befell? 

Safe — can  a  Heaven  which  is  safe  and  painless. 
Ever  be  Heaven  to  them? 

Somewhere  amid  the  clouds  there  is  the  home  of  thunder; 

Thunder  is  naught  to  them, 

It  is  a  ball,  a  heavy  plaything 

They  may  kick  hither  and  thither  with  their  feet. 

Lightning  is  but  a  toy — the  flaming  stars 

Are  endless  camp-fire  lights ; 

And  for  the  silence  of  eternity. 

They  too  on  out-post  duty,  often  heard  it  speak. 

We  have  the  dreams  of  our  fat  lives  that  lead  us 
To  waste  our  lives ; 

We  have  the  false  hope  we  are  serving  others 
When  it  is  but  ourselves  we  serve ; 

Yet  for  these  who  have  never  lived,  and  whose  sole  service 
Was  but  to  die  too  soon. 

Perhaps  somewhere  they  are  making  a  new  Heaven 
Filled  with  the  divine  despair  and  joy  this  dead  earth 
never  knew. 


KARLE  WILSON  BAKER 

? 
EAGLE  YOUTH 

(1918) 

THEY  have  taken  his  horse  and  plume, 
They  have  left  him  to  plod,  and  fume 
For  a  hero's  scope  and  room! 
They  have  curbed  his  fighting  pride, 
They  have  bade  him  burrow  and  hide 
With  a  million,  side  by  side : 
Look — into  the  air  he  springs. 
Fighting  with  wings ! 

He  has  found  a  way  to  be  free 

Of  that  dun  immensity 

That  would  swallow  up  such  as  he : 

Who  would  burrow  when  he  could  fly? 

He  will  climb  up  into  the  sky 

And  the  world  shall  watch  him  die ! 

Only  his  peers  may  dare 

Follow  him  there ! 


LOUIS  UNTERMEYER 

JERUSALEM  DELIVERED 

I   BOUGHT  my  paper  at  the  crowded  corner 
And  almost  shouted  as  I  read  the  news : 
'^Jerusalem  Taken — Freedom  For  The  Jews'* 
Here  was  a  line  to  answer  friend  and  scorner, 
A  triumph  for  the  just,  a  proof  that  Time, 
So  negligent  of  the  affairs  of  men, 
Had  turned  and  given  us  our  own  at  last. 
And  then 

He  stumbled  past — 

A  cross  between  a  monarch  and  a  mourner, 
Dark-eyed  and  dismal,  but  with  a  sublime 
Assurance  in  his  face. 
A  pride  of  race 

Endowed  him  with  an  insolent  sort  of  grace. 
Something  at  once  rebellious  and  resigned; 
A  dignity  that  shamed  the  yoke, 
A  warmth  that  called  and  clasped  me  to  my  kind. 
And  then  he  spoke : 

*'What  should  we  want  with  Zion  now,  we  Jews 
With  iron  in  our  souls,  with  brain  and  thews 
Hardened  by  hammering  epochs;  we  who  made 
Majestic  dictates  that  have  swayed 
And  outlived  conquering  empires;  we 


LOUIS  UNTERMEYER  29 

In  whom  a  fresh  and  fiery  energy 
Has  blossomed  Into  psalms  and  saviors;  turned 
A  savage  tribe  to  kings  and  priests  that  burned 
To  set  a  whole  world  free. 

Dreamers  that  rose  against  the  darkening  hordes; 
Poets  In  armor;  prophets  bearing  swords — 
We  who  have  lived,  triumphant  In  defeat, 
Spurring  a  lagging  world,  shall  we  now  meet 
To  find  the  softest  path,  the  easiest  road, 
And  run,  rejoicing,  to  a  snug  retreat? 
What  trade  have  we  with  comfort  well-bestowed 
Who  are  the  world's  uncomfortable  goad? 
Sorrow  has  been  our  quickening  bread,  and  pain 
The  healing  wine  that  made  us  strong  again. 
A  race  of  exiled  shepherds  without  a  fold, 
We  sought  new  flocks  and  stopped  to  weep 
Over  a  hundred  homes  we  could  not  keep, 
Gathering  for  others  what  they  could  not  hold. 

By  the  waters  of  Babylon 

We  sat  down  and  wept; 

Upon  the  comfortless  willows 

We  hung  our  harps. 

A  kingdom  of  priests  and  a  holy  nation, 

We  were  nourished  on  hate. 

Lifting  our  eyes  to  the  hills 

We  praised  all  goodness  and  drank 

Poison  and  prejudice, 

Bigotry  and  death.  .   .  . 

So  we  went  forth — 


30  LOUIS  UNTERMEYER 

Outcast,  defrauded,  maligned — 
Sowing  the  world  with  faith; 
Kindling  the  earth  with  a  dream. 

Kindling  the  earth  with  a  dream,  we  spread  our  seed, 

Warriors  and  wise  men  rising  from  our  bones. 

Summoning  Maccabeus  In  our  need, 

Judas  the  Hammer  sprang  up  from  the  stones. 

We  struck  with  him  for  nothing  but  a  screed; 

Assembling  all  the  scattered  tones 

And  fragments  of  the  Law,  we  fought  and  freed 

The  unborn  Western  world.  We  challenged  Rome 

Upon  the  blood-soaked  ruins  of  our  home; 

And  from  Barkochba's  smouldering  defeat 

We  gathered  strength  to  stand  against  the  flood 

Of  lies  and  inquisitions,  greed  and  blood. 

When  chivalry  became  a  pious  cheat. 

We  lived  to  think  and  suffer  while  the  fires 

Of  hate  beat  over  us  at  every  step ; 

While  the  crusaders  raged  with  bloody  feet 

And  Murder,  to  the  tune  of  'Hep!  Hep!  Hep!' 

Danced  at  our  doors  or  swaggered  down  the  street. 

The  night  hears  voices  death  could  never  kill 

In  Treves  and  Strasburg,  Worms,  Cologne,  and  Spires, 

Our  ghosts  still  cry  in  York  and  in  Seville ; 

The  walls  of  Kishinev  are  never  still. 

There  was  but  one  escape  for  us  at  last — 

To  turn  to  lusty  legends  like  a  blast 

Of  heartening  trumpets,  wring  new  life  from  these, 


/ 


LOUIS  UNTERMEYER  31 

Facing  dark  futures  with  our  fiery  past ; 
Or  heal  ourselves  in  orient  imageries. 

In  Paradise 

There  are  eighty  myriads  of  trees. 

The  meanest  among  them  is  taller 

Than  the  cedars  of  Lebanon 

And  richer  than  clusters  of  camphire  in  the  vineyards 
of  En-gedi. 

In  every  corner 

There  are  sixty  myriads  of  angels, 

Bright  as  the  grains  of  a  silver  pomegranate 

Upon  which  fall  the  rays  of  the  moon. 

The  Tree  of  Life  stands  in  the  very  centre 

And  shades  the  whole  of  the  heavens. 

It  has  fifteen  thousand  tastes 

And  the  perfumes  thereof  vary  likewise. 

Over  it  hang  seven  clouds  of  glory; 

Wild  beasts  are  friendly  beneath  it, 

And  winds  sing  in  its  branches  forever. 

And  we  shall  inherit  it. 

We  shall  dwell  in  the  fifth  of  the  heavens 

That  is  built  of  raw  silver  with  a  wainscot  of  gold. 

The  canopies  are  all  of  stars 

And  the  coverlets  of  the  jewelled  beds 

Are  purple  and  blue  silks 

Woven  by  Eve  herself. 

We  shall  lie  softly  there 

And  see  the  sun  come  from  his  chamber  like  a  bride- 
groom. 


32  LOUIS  UNTERMEYER 

Or  like  a  strong  man  about  to  run  a  race. 

We  shall  watch  him  rise  in  the  morning y 

Fresh  from  his  bath  of  flame, 

The  brightness  dripping  from  his  hair. 

Scattering  drops  of  daylight  through  the  skies. 

We  shall  talk  with  Elijah. 

And  every  Monday  and  Thursday,  on  Sabbaths  and 

holidays. 
The  Patriarchs  shall  walk  with  us 
And  the  twelve  sons  of  Jacob, 
And  Moses  and  David  and  all  the  kings  of  Israel 
Shall  pass  with  the  Messiah. 
The  gates  of  carbuncle  shall  lift  their  heads. 
The  rocks  shall  clap  their  hands, 
Forgotten  crannies  of  the  earth  be  green  pavilions 
And  dusty  crevices  shall  bloom  with  laughter! 

So  we  have  flourished,  fed  on  dreams  and  doubt, 

God-makers  and  god-breakers,  lashing  out 

With  Job-like  questioning  at  God  and  death 

And  answering  ourselves  in  that  same  breath. 

An  angry  blaze,  a  scornful  thundering 

At  all  things,  and  a  faith  in  everything. 

A  fire  that  swept  through  Joshua  and  came 

To  white  perfection  in  Spinoza's  flame; 

That  lit  Lassalle's  and  Heine's  Ironies 

And  shone  in  quiet  radiance  from  the  lives 

Of  Ibn  Ezra  to  Maimonides. 

The  light  that,  often  dimmed,  persists  and  strives 


LOUIS  UNTERMEYER  33 

Through  all  of  us  from  Mendelssohn  to  Marx; 

The  brand  of  which  they  all  were  scattering  sparks — 

Hillel  and  Jesus — even  so  are  we. 

A  race  that  burns,  an  ever  fiery  sword 

To  rescue  tolerance  and  set  freedom  free — 

This  is  our  mission,  let  us  never  cast 

Away  our  boldness  which  hath  great  reward.  .  .  . 

Into  the  world  then,  let  us  bear  this  light 
Not  skulk  back  home  with  it,  but  swing  the  bright 
Brand  into  musty  corners.  Let  the  flame 
Beat  on  all  smug  deceit  and  placid  shame; 
Turning  our  backs  on  softness,  we  shall  go, 
Making  fresh  fires  and  stronger  beacons  burn 
There  where  the  fight  is  darkest.  Let  us  turn 
Like  a  new  army  risen  from  its  dreams, 
To  sterner  measures,  universal  schemes 
Wherever  something  struggles,  climbs,  or  delves. 
So  let  us  rise  above  the  past  we  know 
And  be  a  light  not  only  to  ourselves. 

Out  of  unhiiried  ages  came  a  voice: 

*  Listen  J  O  isles,  unto  me 

And  hearken,  ye  people,  from  afar. 

The  Lord  hath  called  me  and  said, 

Thou  art  my  servant,  O  Israel,  in  whom  I  am  glorified/ 

Yet  it  is  too  small  a  thing  that  thou  shouldst  he  my 

servant 
To  raise  up  only  the  tribes  of  Jacob 
And  to  restore  the  preserved  of  Israel: 


34  LOUIS  UNTERMEYER 

No — I  will  also  give  thee 

For  a  light  to  the  Gentiles^ 

As  a  beacon  to  all  men, 

That  my  desire  and  thy  mission  reach 

Unto  the  ends  and  stretches  of  the  world.'  '' 

He  stopped. 

The  gray  dusk  dropped  its  thin  disguise 

A  moment  only,  and  the  crowd  surged  on. 

A  newsboy  shrieked  the  news  again  and  hopped 

Between  us  as  I  sought  the  old  man's  eyes, 

So  wise,  benevolent,  and  wan; 

Less  of  a  mystery  than  a  shining  clue. 

I  turned  to  ask — something  I  think  I  knew 

But  never  can  be  sure  of. 

He  was  gone. 


IRENE  McLEOD 


THE  ABSENT  LOVER 

SPRING  Is  gone,  and  summer's  here, 
They're  bringing  up  the  hay, 
Soon  they  will  be  harvesting, 
And  my  love's  still  away. 
I  see  the  apples  reddening. 
And  yellow  burns  the  wheat, 
Lovers  sit  in  summer's  heart. 
And  sing  to  summer's  beat. 
But  my  love's  still  away! 

He  lies  there,  he  cries  there, 
I  hear  him  night  and  day; 
I  cannot  hear  the  birds  sing. 
For  my  love's  still  away. 
I'll  not  go  through  the  clover  field. 
Along  to  Foxglove  wood. 
Nor  climb  the  ash  on  Chapel  hill 
We  climbed  In  happier  mood. 
For  my  love's  still  away ! 

We  hated  never  man  nor  beast, 
Our  hearts  were  pure  and  gay. 
We  worshipped  love  in  gentleness. 
Yet  they  took  my  love  away. 


36  IRENE  McLEOD 

They  sent  my  love  a-butchering 
Other  women's  dears, 
And  oh,  the  cries  of  women's  hearts 
Ring  tolling  in  my  ears. 
They  took  our  loves  away ! 

O  summer  lanes,  O  summer  fields 
That  smell  so  sweet  of  hay. 
When  this  is  done,  and  Truth  is  won- 
Though  my  love's  still  away — 
May  happier  lovers  love  here 
Where  I  so  lonely  tread, 
And  build  thy  shining  city,  Love, 
Over  our  darling  dead.  .   .   . 
Though  my  love's  still  away! 


MISSING 

1KNEW  by  their  eyes  when  they  came, 
Lips  locked  on  a  word  unsaid, 
Hands  gentle  as  pity,  or  death.  .  .  . 
It  was  I  who  cried  out  on  your  name; 
Life  paused  on  a  breath.  .  .  . 
Missing!  Hope  sprang  like  a  flame ! 
Not  dead !  O  my  love  .  .  .  not  dead? 


GRACE  HAZARD  CONKLING 

r 

TO  FRANCIS  LEDWIDGE 

KILLED  IN  FRANCE,  JULY  31,  1917. 

"Shall  I  meet  Keats  In  some  wild  Isle  of  balm 
Dreaming  beside  a  tarn?" 

— Francis  Ledwidge, 

LOVER  of  the  lane-rose,  of  rainy  trees, 
And  speech  of  corn  and  wind  upon  the  hill, 
Voice  of  the  deep  fields,  high  priest  of  the  bees 
When  summer  whispers  all  you  say  she  will. 
Beside  what  crystal  water  poised  and  still 
Have  you  bewitched  his  dreams  with  news  of  these 
And  of  his  nightingale,  talking  until 
The  wild  isle  listens  and  the  fairy  seas? 
But  if  as  far  as  this,  dark  rumor  flies. 
And  he  should  ask  of  England  and  of  France, 
Graving  the  dear-bought  wisdom  of  your  eyes. 
Oh  give  him  comfort !  Tell  him  they  still  advance. 
Those  grim  and  glorious  men  who  mean  to  free 
Your  Flanders  grave,  and  his  in  Italy! 


LEE  WILSON  DODD 

r 

PLUS  TARD 

AND  later  on,  those  who  are  left  will  say 
Little  about  it;  they  will  not  care  to  tell 
Much  of  those  years — content  to  buy  and  sell, 
To  practise  law,  relive  in  the  old  way 
The  old  quiet  humdrum  round.  One  will  be  gray, 
A  trifle  bent,  a  trifle  frail,  and — well. 
If  someone  asks  him  where  his  comrades  fell 
In  France,  he  may  grow  garrulous.  .  .  .  He  may. 
Or  he  may  not.  It  all  depends.  If  he 
Is  sitting  at  dusk  by  a  slow-embered  fire 
And  his  pet  grandchild  questions  him,  why  then 
He  may  begin  to  hear  the  guns  again, 
His  hands  may  fumble  toward  the  treacherous  wire 
That  .  .  . 

"Sonny,"  he'll  sigh,  "at  Chateau-Thierry"  .  .  . 


KARLE  WILSON  BAKER 


GRAVES  IN  FRANCE 

THEIR  fates  shall  be  a  song,  a  schoolboy's  wonder, 
For  many  a  day — 
O,  the  red  treasure  we  have  buried  yonder, 
So  far  away! 

O,  the  poor,  panting  love  that  must  go  weeping 

Through  bloody  foam, 
To  find  the  soldier  in  his  glory  sleeping. 

So  far  from  home ! 

France,  we  have  loved  thee !  But  beyond  all  measure 

Our  love  shall  be. 
Since  in  thy  bosom  we  have  hid  our  treasure 

Of  agony. 


WILFRID  WILSON  GIBSON 

SENTRY  GO 

TRUE  lad  who  shared  the  guard  with  me 
That  night  of  whirling  snow, 
What  other  nights  have  brought  to  you 
I  shall  not  know. 

I  never  even  hear  your  name 

And  hardly  saw  your  face, 

Yet  you  poured  out  all  your  heart  to  me 

As  we  kept  pace. 

I  know  not  if  you're  living  still, 
Or  fallen  in  the  fight : 
But  in  my  heart  your  heart  is  safe 
Till  the  last  night. 


ALICE  CORBIN 


A  LITANY  IN  THE  DESERT 

I 

ON  the  other  side  of  the  Sangre  de  Crlsto  mountains 
there  Is  a  great  welter  of  steel  and  flame.  I  have 
read  that  It  is  so.  I  know  nothing  of  It  here. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  water  there  is  terrible  carnage. 
I  have  read  that  It  Is  so.  I  know  nothing  of  it  here. 

I  do  not  know  why  men  fight  and  die.  I  do  not  know 
why  men  sweat  and  slave.  I  know  nothing  of  It  here. 

II 

Out  of  the  peace  of  your  great  valleys,  America,  out  of 
the  depth  and  silence  of  your  deep  canyons, 

Out  of  the  wide  stretch  of  yellow  cornfields,  out  of  the 
stealthy  sweep  of  your  rich  prairies. 

Out  of  the  high  mountain  peaks,  out  of  the  intense 
purity  of  your  snows, 

Invigorate  us,  O  America. 

Out  of  the  deep  peace  of  your  breast,  out  of  the  sure 
strength  of  your  loins. 

Recreate  us,  O  America. 

Not  from  the  smoke  and  the  fever  and  fret,  not  from 
the  welter  of  furnaces,  from  the  fierce  melting-pot  of 
cities; 


42  ALICE  CORBIN 

But  from  the  quiet  fields,  from  the  little  places,  from 
the  dark  lamp-lit  nights — from  the  plains,  from  the 
cabins,  from  the  little  house  In  the  mountains, 

Breathe  strength  upon  us : 

And  give  us  the  young  men  who  will  make  us  great. 


W.  M.  LETTS 

r 

A  BALLADE  FOR  PEACE  DAY 

TO-DAY  Peace  came  on  radiant  feet 
And  blew  her  trumpet  in  the  Square — 
*'The  War  is  over" — news  is  fleet, 
And  soon  through  every  thoroughfare 
Passed  Youth  and  Joy,  a  radiant  pair, 
Arms  linked  and  bright  heads  crowned  with  bays. 
Yet  while  there's  laughter  everywhere 
Some  must  go  softly  all  their  days. 

There  are  no  strangers;  kind  hearts  beat 
In  unison;  the  joy  they  share 
Makes  all  akin. — We  smile  and  greet 
Like  happy  neighbors  at  a  Fair. 
Flags  float  above  us.  Here  and  there 
The  church  bells  chime  their  solemn  praise, 
There  seems  no  room  for  grief  or  care. 
Must  some  go  softly  all  their  days? 

The  young  once  more  may  find  life  sweet. 
They  need  not  dread  dull-eyed  Despair. 
With  fearless  hearts  shall  lovers  meet, 
Together  climb  the  rainbow  stair 
To  some  dream  castle  in  the  air. 


44  W.  M.  LETTS 

The  fire  of  hope  may  leap  and  blaze, 
But  for  the  sorrows  past  repair 
Some  must  go  softly  all  their  days. 

Envoy 
O  broken  hearts  who  needs  must  bear 
The  cost  of  this  new  world  we  raise, 
May  God  console  you,  is  our  prayer. 
While  you  go  softly  all  your  days. 


THE  ROAD  THAT  GOES  WEST 

"And  when  the  world  is  hushed  and  the  fever  of  life  over  and 
our  work  done,  then  in  thy  mercy  give  us  a  safe  lodging  and  a 
quiet  rest." — Prayer. 

WHEN  from  this  war  my  way  lies  to  the  west, 
Footsore  and  muddy,  wounded,  shattered,  spent, 
Death  being  past  I  shall  but  crave  a  rest, 
A  kindly  hostel,  welcome  and  content. 

Some  hope  for  golden  streets  and  gates  of  pearl 
And  some  for  haloes  and  a  sea  of  glass. 
May  God  forgive  me  for  a  thankless  churl — 
rd  rather  have  one  field  of  daisied  grass. 

I  am  too  battle-stained  for  mansions  fine. 

Too  tired  for  the  flutes  and  minstrelsy. 

A  Paradise  remote  and  green  be  mine. 

An  English  Heaven  were  good  enough  for  me. 


W.  M.  LETTS  45 

I'd  choose  to  reach  It  when  the  evening  sun 
Sends  level  beams  among  the  elm  tree  boles, 
When  rooks  and  daws  fly  home  and  labor's  done, 
And  all  the  wayside  flowers  wear  aureoles. 

Later  an  English  twilight  sweet  with  stocks, 
A  flittering  of  bats  against  the  sky. 
Dim  orchard  grass  where  dandelion  clocks 
Tell  fairy  time  to  elves  who  wander  by. 

Gnarled  boughs  beneath  the  casement  of  my  room, 
That  white  still  room  set  far  from  strife  and  fear; 
The  church  owl  hooting  In  his  hallowed  gloom, 
A  sound  of  hurried  waters  at  the  weir; 

The  house  all  hushed  save  when  the  night  winds  stir 
The  cluster  roses  nodding  at  the  pane, 
Or  drowsy  moths  set  soft  gray  wings  a-whirr 
About  the  walls,  then  sink  to  rest  again. 

How  good  to  lie  and  dream  with  fast-shut  eyes. 
Of  every  care  and  baulked  desire  bereft; 
To  take  no  heed  of  punishment  or  prize 
Or  that  bewildered  toil-worn  life  I'd  left. 

Who  knows,  the  Master  of  the  house  might  stand 
At  rising  of  the  moon  beside  my  bed 
And  say,  "Sleep  on,  sleep  on,"  and  lay  His  hand. 
In  benediction  on  my  weary  head. 


EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS 

EPITAPH  FOR  US 

ONE  with  the  turf,  one  with  the  tree 
As  we  are  now,  you  soon  shall  be. 
As  you  are  now,  so  once  were  we. 

The  hundred  years  we  looked  upon 

Were  Goethe  and  Napoleon. 

Now  twice  a  hundred  years  are  gone, 

And  you  gaze  back  and  contemplate, 
Lloyd  George  and  Wilson,  William's  hate, 
And  Nicholas  of  the  bloody  fate; 

Us,  too,  who  won  the  German  war. 
Who  knew  less  what  the  strife  was  for 
Than  you,  now  that  the  conqueror 

Lies  with  the  conquered.    You  will  say: 
"Here  sleep  the  brave,  the  grave,  the  gay, 
The  wise,  the  blind,  who  lost  the  way." 

But  for  us  English,  for  us  French, 

Americans  who  held  the  trench, 

You  will  not  grieve,  though  the  rains  drench 


EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS  47 

The  hills  and  valleys,  being  these. 
Who  pities  stocks,  or  pities  trees? 
Or  stones,  or  meadows,  rivers,  seas? 

We  are  with  nature,  we  have  grown 
At  one  with  water,  earth,  and  stone — 
Man  only  is  separate  and  alone, 

Earth  sundered,  left  to  dream  and  feel 
Illusion  still  in  pain  made  real. 
The  hope  a  mist,  but  fire  the  wheel. 

But  what  was  love,  and  what  was  lust. 
Memory,  passion,  pain  or  trust. 
Returned  to  clay  and  blown  in  dust, 

Is  nature  without  memory — 
Yet  as  you  are,  so  once  were  we, 
As  we  are  now,  you  soon  shall  be. 

Blind  fellows  of  the  indifferent  stars 
Healed  of  your  bruises,  of  your  scars 
In  love  and  living,  in  the  wars. 

Come  to  us  where  the  secret  lies 
Under  the  riddle  of  the  skies, 
Surrender  fingers,  speech,  and  eyes. 

Sink  into  nature  and  become 

The  mystery  that  strikes  you  dumb, 

Be  clay  and  end  your  rnartyrdom. 


48  EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS 

Rise  up  as  thought,  the  secret  know. 
As  passionless  as  stars  bestow 
Your  glances  on  the  world  below, 

As  a  man  looks  at  hand  or  knee. 
What  Is  the  turf  of  you,  what  the  tree? 
Earth  is  a  phantom — let  it  be. 


JOHN  GOULD  FLETCHER 

-    r 

THE  SILENT  NAVY 

GO  look  you  beyond  Heligoland, 
German  sailors: 
Go  look  you  beyond  Heligoland, 
To  see  what  the  dawn  brings  forth. 
"We  have  passed  beyond  Heligoland, 
And  have  strained  our  gaze  far  off  to  west, 
Where  the  shadow  of  a  silent  navy 
Rose  between  sea  and  sky." 

Go  shell  the  English  coast, 

German  sailors:  , 

Go  shell  the  English  coast. 

To  show  you  have  no  fear. 

''We  have  shelled  the  English  coast. 

And  the  blood  of  the  Innocent  stains  our  hands, 

But  the  thought  of  a  silent  navy 

Made  us  scurry  away." 

Go  sweep  the  northern  waters, 

German  sailors : 

Go  sweep  the  northern  waters. 

To  find  what  may  be  there. 

"We  have  swept  the  northern  waters. 


50  JOHN  GOULD  FLETCHER 

Till  we  came  to  Jutland  Reef  at  last, 
When  the  smoke  of  a  silent  navy 
Made  us  break  off  the  battle." 

Go  down  beneath  the  waves, 
German  sailors: 
Go  down  beneath  the  waves, 
Till  you  come  to  the  open  sea. 
"We  have  been  beneath  the  waves. 
And  have  carried  slaughter  to  the  seas; 
But  the  shadow  of  a  silent  navy 
Guarded  our  enemy." 

Put  forth  to  sea  at  last, 

German  sailors: 

Put  forth  to  sea  at  last. 

The  day,  the  day  has  come ! 

*'We  have  put  to  sea  at  last. 

And,  to  a  signal,  dropped  our  flags 

At  the  bidding  of  a  silent  navy 

Watching  our  doom  of  shame." 


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